EPTAt present, I faced what some poet or other called a conundrum of comfort and cleverness. In fact, I’m not sure any poet in the Terran Dominion ever actually said that but I thought it a rather neat line so, being the soul of generosity itself, I invite any aspiring poet chappies to gorge themselves on my wordplay, and reproduce as they see fit.
The conundrum was this: it would be dashedly comforting to remain in this quiet room, in this leather armchair, with the engines a’humming below and the workers a’workin above and the cold but peaceful void of space around. I was well into my second Scotch on ice and feeling deuced pleased with myself.
However, it would be a far sight more clever to wander about, get to know the crew, raise morale, have fellows salute to me and whatnot. It never seems to sit well with me. Bless their eagerness, of course, but dash it, their salutes could cut bread and their bellows of “ten’SHUN!” made me markedly flinch, not a good sign for a supposed leader of men.
To go back a little, being the Emperor’s nephew (Uncle Acturus, don’t you know, though he seems to have done quite well for himself these days and goes by a dropload of titles) I had been assigned command of one of the greatest battlecruisers in the fleet.
Now, many’s a chappie who, upon receiving such an honor, would have entertained-but never shed- a manly tear in the corner of his eye and, speaking in a low and somber voice about duty and the Terran race and how those bugs and aliens were jolly well going to get a trouncing, would have ripped off a salute that would have made women swoon and strong men tremble.
My own reaction had been more along the lines of “Oh, ah?”
You see, I’m not one of those blokes who does much but what I do, I do very well. Few have a keener eye than yours truly when it comes to the matter of betting on the hellion races. Bring to me spirits and concoctions from a thousand different worlds and I, I declare, am just the man to raise the old eyebrow of appreciation or the well practiced sneer of rejection, whichever it deserves. In the matter of charitable giving, I will match any chap mineral to mineral.
Tell old self to command a battlecruiser, even the best in the business, and rain down unquenchable fire, even on lower-lifeforms (Zerg, Protoss and any Terran who can’t tie a proper windsor knot or failing that have a chap who ties it for him) and I am bound to say that the heart quails somewhat. I mean to say, we Mengsk’s have a long and proud military tradition-look at old Uncle Acturus- but this sort of thing always struck me as a dash on the unsporting side.
Still, it may come to nothing. It was an expedition to find the rascal Jim Raynor, who was reputed to be hiding at the edge of Protoss space. If Raynor was as good as his reputation, he would elude me for many comfortable months while I sipped on the finer things in life and then, with the wounded air of a man who had tried his utmost and failed to fulfil his duty, I would report the loss to Uncle Act, and hopefully get a thoroughly swift discharge.
And, as so often happens, just as I was starting once again to muse on the grandness of life and my ability to adapt, fate snuck up behind me with a bit of lead piping and struck as cruel a blow as the philosophers credit it with striking.
My valet (I suppose I shall have to call him my batman now, since I’m in the army) materialized behind me. I do not use the fanciful language of the poets, but rather the more literal one of prose: I don’t mean he walked softly and cleared his throat behind me without me noticing, I mean he actually materialized out of nothingness. He was-now is again I suppose- a ghost, see.
And while the appearance of Haven generally fills me with joy and a smashing breakfast, it was his message that was rumminess itself.
Unwrinkled in brow or attire, as always, he said as if he were announcing the zero-grav cricket score “Executor Marinus wishes to speak to you sir.”
This was, as I say, rum.
“What, the Protoss bird?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Important?”
Haven coughed gently.
“I confess I do not know whether you mean the personage or the message, sir, but if I were to venture an answer to either, sir, it would be yes, sir.”
“Well.” I said. After a few strained moments, I ventured another “well.”
“Shall I put her through to your comm-link sir?”
“Well,” I said again, refusing to venture onto more adventurous ground. But I saw the man’s eyes and saw there was no escape. I couldn’t very well tell her I was out, could I? I was the dashed commander of the cruiser.
“Yes,” I said, and rarely have I regretted anything more.
The comm link flashed into view. A protoss lady of a haughty bearing, and that’s saying something for a protoss let me tell you, glared at me as if I were a bug in her morning tea.
“En Taro Tassadar, Commander Mengsk” She said, but not like she meant it.
“Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! What?” As formal military greetings go, I will be the first to admit it lacked a certain polish.
She ignored this however, and got straight to the biz. at hand.
“You must turn your ship around immediately. You are on the cusp of Protoss space.”
I looked to Haven and he nodded imperceptibly. That was enough for me. Say what you will of old George, (that’s me) he knows when he’s onto a good thing. Haven’s judgments have been impeccable since he entered my service years ago and a jolly good thing it is, because what he has in abundance, viz., brains, the young master lacks in equal measure. If Haven had come to me one morning and said “Sir, several of our moons are wholly constructed of cheese, and the Terran dominions military is inferior to that of our enemies” I would have said “Dashed terrible, of course, but you know best Haven.” and that would have been that. If Haven agreed we were a spit away from Protoss space, so it was.
“Deuced sorry, and all that, we’ll...let me check the star charts...we’ll just be passing through. Won’t be a moment, we’re just getting to a closeby planet. Be out of your, er, hair, before you know it. Don’t want to be a bother.”
This did not seem to impress said bird. She gave me the look many of my aunts, whom I would gladly have traded for any number of mutalisks rapping on my bedroom door, have given me in my short life.
“You WILL turn back, Commander, or we will intercept.”
“Intercept?”
“With lethal force.”
“Oh I say! ”
“Carriers and Void rays have already been moved into position”
“Wait, what? Hang on a moment!”
“The Void Rays are charging up on asteroids as we speak.”
Well, that about took the small talk out of old George, I am not ashamed to admit. I mean, when a lady of supposed distinction, even from an inferior race, tells you with a suspiciously gleeful tone that her associates are clustering around charging up on innocent asteroids, whatever the deuce that means, with the express desire of making the finest battlecruiser in a million miles indistinguishable from a piece of candy after you’ve thoroughly chewed it, I mean to say, what?
Speech may have failed me but Haven, a far more reliable resource, did not. He stepped forward smoothly and, giving an apologetic cough, said “En Taro Tassadar, Executor. And En Taro Adun.”
If Marinus was impressed by the greetings, she didn’t say.
“What is your role, Terran?”
“I am Mr. Mengsk’s aide-de-camp, Executor. His advisor.”
Very true. The chap had advised me against wearing a bright red jacket just yesterday. I had ignored his advice willy nilly, and now look where I was.
“Do you have something you wish to say?”
“Only our deepest apologies for encroaching upon your rightful space, Executor.”
I felt I should cut in. Reassert the old authority.
“Yes. Oh, indeed. Frightfully sorry.”
“But we would be remiss in our duty and besmirch our honor were we not to carry forth our mission. We would be glad to remain under the guard of an escort till we exit Protoss space.
She seemed to soften just a smidgen at the words “duty” and “honor”, so I parroted them in a rather throttled voice.
“I will consult on this, Terran, if your duty is so important. But I warn you: we are not apt to change our mind. Perhaps you would best use this time to change yours.”
And the comm link went dead, as did my stomach.
“Well, Haven!”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is dashed rummy, what?”
“An eloquent summation, sir.”
“If we try to push through, we’ll get eaten alive, won’t we?”
“I do not like to disparage the fineness of our troops and our weapons sir..”
“Out with it Haven!”
“The possibility of overcoming a full Protoss force seems remote, sir.”
“And I can’t very well go to Uncle Acturus and say we threw up our hands at the first hurdle, can I?”
“It would not be advisable, sir.”
“It’s one thing to say we failed to find Raynor after months but turning back like this, well, he’ll have a few words to say about manliness and whatnot, won’t he?”
“If I understand the Emperor’s disposition, rather more than a few, sir.”
“We must think of something, Haven.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When I say we, of course, I mean you. Little good asking me to think of things, is it? My talents, as you know, lie elsewhere.”
“Quite so sir. Would you like your afternoon drink, sir?”
“And a dashed brilliant idea of how to get out of this excrement. Bring both, and snappily, Haven!”
“Very good, sir.”
Part 2: http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?id=156015
Part 3: http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?id=156402
